


good enough

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Angst, Character Study, Jon takes a fucking bath, M/M, Martin is only mentioned I'm sorry, background jonmartin, post-154 vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Martin's words hadn't bothered Jon right away; to say he had been caught off guard would have been a better descriptive. With more pressing matters to discuss, Martin's interjection had barely registered, and it would only begin to sink in after the day had passed and the proverbial dust had settled.Jon takes some time for personal care.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 13
Kudos: 218





	good enough

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in September after 154 dropped but never got around to actually finishing it until today. Literally no one needs this fic now but here you go.

_'Jesus, Jon. You—you look like hell.'_

Martin's words hadn't bothered Jon right away; to say he had been caught off guard would have been a better descriptive. With more pressing matters to discuss, Martin's interjection had barely registered, and it would only begin to sink in after the day had passed and the proverbial dust had settled. 

He's never really been self-conscious about his appearance before. Jon knows he's not especially attractive, and he's old enough now that he's had plenty of time to accept that fact, but he is aware of how far he's fallen still in this regard. He's always tried to maintain a certain… fastidiousness with his personal grooming that some would be inclined to describe as obsessive, and while it was never about attractiveness, it had always been important for him to have that small measure of control over how he was perceived by others. Jon wasn't handsome and he never would be, but he could be clean-cut, professional, respectable, scholarly.

He looks in the mirror and he struggles to recognize his own reflection. His hair is brittle, coarse and long, longer than he's ever allowed it to grow in his entire life. His eyes are dull and lightless, the skin beneath a bruised purple from sheer exhaustion alone. He has a beard—or rather, the best he's capable of growing because he's never had the genetics for it in the first place. He's never had a beard before, either, and he can't even begin to remember the last time he shaved. He's thin, and while that's always been the case, he's never been so gaunt or so hollow-looking. Words to describe this ghoul in the mirror run through his mind: sick, tired, dead, empty. Jon settles on those given to him by Martin: like hell.

When did it start, he wonders? After the worm attack, his mind is quick to offer. This habitual unkemptness had been slow in its descent, only reaching its peak after years of decline. Jon always knew he wasn't qualified for the Head Archivist position but he was determined to at least look the part—in which he hoped that perhaps his feelings of being an imposter might lessen—but it all felt so meaningless after the worms. When the paranoia set in, he became less diligent; he shaved less, he stopped ironing his clothes, and he was unconcerned when his hair reached a length he'd once considered too inconvenient to suffer. The haircuts stopped completely after too many knives were pressed against his throat by strangers who meant him harm. The coma did him zero favors, and when he did wake after those six months, he was weaker, frailer than before. He wondered if it was his preoccupation with his newer, different hunger that sometimes made him forget to eat real, actual food, but to be fair, he was never really good at that to begin with. It was always Martin reminding him, taking care of him, bringing him tea and biscuits, dragging him to the cafe, forcing him to eat sandwiches and to take the breaks he insisted he didn't want, always Martin who—

Jon shakes his head as if the force of it could dislodge his thoughts and he stares uselessly down into the Archives' bathroom sink. He couldn't think of him, not now, especially not after yesterday—he couldn't stand the way he felt when he did. Despite his best attempts, he can't help but remember Martin's weary gaze and his bitter words (words which Jon knew he deserved a thousand times over). His stomach begins to sink all over again. 

He looks back up at the mirror for a final time before pulling himself away and reaching for the door. He wonders how many times he's worn the same exact shirt this week. He wonders how many times he's risen from the cot in his office and picked the same exact shirt up from off the floor. Surely the others have noticed. Jon hopes that Martin hasn't. 

When Basira comes around later in the day to let him know that she's headed to the store, he asks if he can come. 

"Why?" She asks, and Jon can see the suspicion in her eyes. She must think he wants to steal off to feed and for once, he's uninclined to convince her otherwise. The prospect of telling her the truth filled him with more shame. 

"I, ah, need to pick up some things. Personal items. I assumed you wouldn't let me go to the store by myself and I figure if I do it now, then you won't have to be bothered to leave twice in such a short period of time."

She's silent in her deliberation, staring him down as if to study him for any traces of deception. She acquiesces with a sigh. "Alright. Bring your own cash, though. I'm not paying for you."

He smiles, and although he's sure he means it in earnest, he feels it no deeper than the surface—a superficial twitch of skin and muscle that leaves him feeling hollow on the inside. "Fair enough." 

He's able to pick up everything he needs: cheap clippers, a fresh razor, various toiletries he either didn't have to start with or had simply run out of and not bothered to restock. He even manages to do it without the scrutiny of Basira, who was feeling generous enough to leave him in the men's aisle alone (simply because it was empty, save for himself). It's late on a Saturday night when Jon sneaks into Artefact Storage, armed with only towels and his shopping bag of newly-acquired supplies. The three of them had been fortunate enough to be permitted use of the decontamination shower, which was… honestly, far closer to an ordinary shower than any specialized equipment he was personally aware of, but it wasn't as if the Artefact Storage unit often encountered any traditionally hazardous substances, and anything they were to encounter surely couldn't be washed off before it took off a limb or killed them outright. Basira was asleep, which meant Daisy had just woken up and taken her watch, and she didn't press him about his departure for the shower so late at night. With Peter Lukas left in charge of the institution, The Lonely's influence was crushingly felt, but for just this night, he'd appreciate the time to himself. 

The water pressure is weak, and it won't get any warmer than tepid, but Jon scrubs himself as if he could wash away more than just sweat and grime. He's more thorough than he's been in months, lathering himself with abandon and scouring his fingers through his hair nearly hard enough to hurt. When he's finished he's close to miserable, arms wrapped around himself as he shivers from the draft, but he's done what needed to be done and his sense of accomplishment manages to triumph over any lingering thoughts of the cold, steamless shower. He almost wants to laugh, knowing full well that no previous version of himself would ever be proud of something so banal as cleaning himself. 

Just a few paces from the shower, there's a small sink with a cheap mirror hanging just above the faucet. Jon pads his way towards it, supply bag in tow and a towel wrapped around his waist. He's half bare, exposed between the cracks in the glass's reflection; it crosses his mind how embarrassing it would be if someone walked in and found him like this, raw and without dignity. He makes an effort to bury the thought, because what was the use in worrying about something that, were it to happen, he couldn't do anything about? 

He starts with the clippers first, knowing full well that the patchy accumulation of hair that he calls a beard (only for lack of a better term) has grown too long to tackle with just a razor. Electric humming cuts through the silence as he works, and when he's finished, he's tempted to leave it running on the sink's ledge for the sake of white noise, but he doesn't. He lathers his jaw with shave cream and works the blade of the razor against his skin. He rinses. He brushes his teeth. He makes his way slowly through a seemingly endless list of rituals. In the deafening silence, he finds a strange comfort in the simple repetition of doing what he needs to do to take care of himself. 

At the end of it all, he looks… well, good enough. He knows he'll never look anything close to unscathed, with his skin still mottled by the silvery remains of worm scars, but the exhaustion might yet fade from his eyes and he could always gain back whatever weight he's lost. His hair is clean, but still the same—he'll work up to getting it cut. He's not sure when he'll be ready to let a stranger near him with even a pair of scissors, but if the worst case scenario was tying it back occasionally with the elastics Basira gave him, he counted himself lucky. Good enough was considerably better than 'like hell.'

He dresses himself simply in a comfortable cotton t-shirt and flannel bottoms. He makes his way back to the Archives, ducking in to check in with Daisy, beads of descended water collecting slowly at the edges of his hair and dripping onto his shoulders. 

"I'm back, I—“

Daisy looked up to meet his gaze and her eyes widened, jerking sharply before settling with a deep breath. "Christ, you spooked me. Almost didn't recognize you for a second." She laughs softly and a silence falls between them before she fills it. "Finally got rid of the beard, eh?" 

Jon feels half of his mouth curve into an unsure smile. "Ah, yes. I, uh, decided it was... time for a change," he says. Mild discomfort settles over him and he looks away, raking a hand through his wet strands, shaking them gently. 

Daisy gives him a fond, understanding look. "Feeling like a monster doesn't mean you have to look like one, right? You did good."

Jon's smile shapes into a full one. For the first time in what feels like forever, it runs deeper than his skin. "Thanks. I should, uh, get some sleep. Or try to, at least."

"You know where I'll be."

He lays there on his cot, legs curled, body drawn in. He trains his eyes upward, idly counting the speckles on the ceiling tiles, hoping for sleep to claim him. A freshly shaven face and the taste of wintermint lingering on his tongue won't fix any problems and he knows this, but a new feeling of calm washes over him. He did what he could today. There was nothing else he could have done today. It would have to be enough. 

He turns his head, cheek against the pillow. 

He thinks of Martin. 

He closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> im on the tunglr @cinderpile if you want to say hi.


End file.
